by John Masters
He said decisively, ‘No, I’m not. I’ve agreed to play for the county, but really I don’t think my body is quite ready for first-class cricket, and nor is my mind. It’s the same with flying – battle flying – only more so. I’m going to finish my time at Wellington, making myself ready, body and soul and mind. On New Year’s Day 1916, I’ll be eighteen and three-quarters. On that day I’ll take a commission in the Royal Flying Corps’
‘Oh, Guy,’ she whispered, adoring. She jumped up. ‘But suppose the war’s over by then?’
‘If it’s over, it’s over. I won’t be hurried again. But it won’t be. And you?’
‘As soon as I’ve worked out what to do, I’m going to run away. I’m not going to moulder away in that stinky Cheltenham Ladies College while I could be helping to win the war!’
The four of them sat in the low-ceilinged drawing-room of High Staining, the curtains still back, for the sun had only just set. Smoke rose from the chimneys of Walstone below, and even inside the house they could hear the fitful bellowing of Splendid XV, the bull, from his pen.
Naomi said, ‘I wonder if Girton will close down.’
‘Why should it?’ her mother asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Naomi said, ‘but surely no one will want to be sitting studying when there’s a war on.’
‘War is not women’s work,’ Louise Rowland said.
‘Oh, Mummy, there’ll be all sorts of things we can do – and must. We’ll be lorry drivers, conductors on buses and tubes, nurses, of course, and much, much more … May Frobisher said women would take over nearly all office work, if there was a war and it lasted a long time. The suffragist movement was exciting enough and I’m sorry it’s been stopped. in a way … but this will really mean more for women. It’s thrilling!’
Her father said sombrely, ‘It’s a curse laid on all mankind. In the end, no one will have gained. Only, we will have lost many of our young, who could have contributed so much to the country and the world – poets, painters, priests, even manufacturers, inventors, scientists, scholars …’
‘It is very sad,’ Rachel Cowan said. The big dark eyes were damp with suppressed tears – ‘Already people are saying that Germans eat babies, rape women … I am sorry, Mrs Rowland, but that’s what they’re saying … that they toss Belgian babies up in the air, catch them on their bayonet points and then toast them over fires … and to nuns …’ She shivered and her voice rose, emphasizing the cockney in her accent – ‘It’s not true. They’re ordinary people, like us. I know because I have relatives in Germany, I told you. They are Germans. They are …’ she paused, seemed to gather herself, and ended, ‘they are German Jews. My father’s real name is Cohen … but, of course, you have already guessed that, haven’t you, Naomi?’
Naomi said, ‘No.’ She was puzzled. Rachel was small, her nose was straight, and Jews were supposed to have great hooked noses: also Rachel was generous and kind, and really sympathetic to anyone’s unhappiness.
Rachel said, ‘Now English Jews will be killing German Jews … and everyone will be murdering the truth.’
John Rowland said, ‘We have no choice. We made a promise and we must keep it, whatever the cost’ The young woman’s intensity made him feel uncomfortable. It was not British but, of course, she was a Jew … but Jews could be British, like Disraeli, surely? He gave up.
Rachel said, ‘Everyone will suffer, but those will suffer most who always suffer most – the poor, the working people.’
‘I think you’ll find that the young men of our class will sacrifice a great deal, too,’ John said, ‘but I hope they won’t make a fuss about it.’
Rachel said, ‘I didn’t mean … I’m sorry, Mr Rowland, I spoke foolishly. Your son will be in the war, I suppose?’
Louise said, ‘We don’t know where they’ll send Boy’s battalion. If the war is over quickly enough, it may not leave India.’
Rachel said, ‘I do pray that he will be safe.’
‘So do we, Rachel.’
Stephen Merritt put down The New York Times and said, ‘So they have their war.’ Outside the windows, the Hudson sparkled under the summer sun, a paddle steamer thrashing its wide waters.
His son Johnny said, ‘The Germans have, you mean, Dad.’
His daughter said, ‘Another egg, Dad? There’s time.’
Merritt shook his head. ‘I’m fat enough already, Betty. I just hope and pray that we shan’t get involved in this madness.’
Johnny said, ‘But, Dad, the Germans invaded Belgium, which they’d promised not to do. I think we should join in, at once. Germany would probably make peace then.’
Stephen said, ‘It isn’t quite as simple as that, Johnny.’
Betty said, ‘We all know why you think England can do no wrong Johnny. How could the divine Miss Cate belong to a country that isn’t perfect in every respect?’
He said, ‘Oh, shut up, Betty. Leaving England out for the moment. Dad, isn’t it true that the Germans picked the quarrel, because they think they’re ready and the others aren’t?’
Stephen said, ‘There’s something in that. But they also feel themselves encircled.’
Johnny said, ‘I think we ought to fight. It’s the only honourable thing to do.’
His father sighed. ‘Honour is a hard word to translate into action, where a hundred million people are concerned … a hundred million lives and livelihoods. Come, Johnny, or we’ll miss our train, and then what would happen to the banking system of the United States? Oh, listen, both of you … I’m cancelling our trip to New Mexico and Arizona this year. I can’t leave Wall Street with things the way they are in Europe.’
Betty said, ‘I knew something would happen to prevent me getting that squash blossom necklace for my birthday. Oh, well…’
In the First Lord’s room at the Admiralty, Winston Churchill was closeted with his principal naval adviser, Admiral Prince Louis of Battenberg, the First Sea Lord. Winston strode up and down, a cigar in his mouth, occasionally stabbing a stubby forefinger at one of the maps on the wall. ‘The first priority is to defend these islands against attack by the German High Seas fleet,’ he said.
‘I agree,’ the admiral said, stroking his pointed beard.
‘That is the task of the Grand Fleet, and thank God, because of the naval review last week, the Fleet is already concentrated and on its way to Scapa Flow … which must be properly defended against all weapons as soon as possible, including Zeppelins and submarines, admiral.’
‘We are doing all we can. We do not think the Zeppelin threat is very serious. They cannot carry big enough bombs, nor do they have proper devices for aiming at a comparatively small target, such as a battleship’s deck. Submarines are more dangerous.’
‘Very well. Next, we have to destroy the German outlying squadrons so that they present no threat to our trade, or to ships bringing troops from the Dominions and Colonies. The most important seems to be the German East Asia Squadron, based at Tsingtau. What does it consist of?’
‘Two armoured cruisers – Scharnhorst and Gneisenau – and three light cruisers – Emden, Leipzig, and Nürnberg – all under Vice-Admiral Graf von Spee. He is a most capable and resourceful officer, sir. And his squadron won the gunnery prize for the whole German fleet this year. Also, Dresden may join them from the Atlantic. She’s another light cruiser.’
‘How do you propose to deal with von Spee?’
The First Sea Lord hid a smile. His political master did not like to give any foreigner the idea his language was worth pronouncing properly; so had called the German admiral ‘von Spee,’ to rhyme with ‘spree,’ though Battenberg had just pronounced it correctly, ‘von Spay.’ He answered the First Lord’s question – ‘Concentrate our American squadron under Rear Admiral Cradock … the battleship Canopus is very old and slow, but she is a battleship … the armoured cruisers Monmouth and Good Hope, and the light cruisers Kent, Cornwall, Glasgow, and Penrith.’
‘Not much margin of superiority there. And none if Canopus
can’t keep up.’
‘It’s the best we can do, sir … unless we send down two battle cruisers.’
‘We can not spare any, can we? And they would be wasting their time until we have located this von Spee.’ An impish smile flitted across the First Lord’s plump face as he again lispingly mispronounced the name.
‘I think we have made the best arrangements possible,’ Battenberg said.
‘So do I. Now, admiral, pray let us consider the matter of protecting the BEF on its way to France. Then – Amsterdam: what can we achieve by sending a force there? Then – Friesia: what are the possibilities of landing marines there? Then – the safe-guarding of our naval oil supplies. Then …’
Daily Telegraph, Tuesday, August 4, 1914
VIOLATED TREATIES
There seems to be no limits to the mad haste with which Germany pursues her intemperate course – the independence of Luxemburg has been ruthlessly set aside. Next it became the turn of Belgium. A curiously cynical ultimatum preceded the military measures – long since prepared – by which Belgian neutrality was violated … an equally cynical offer (was) made, as we learnt yesterday, to the British Government, promising that if we condoned German proceedings we should have the satisfaction of knowing that after the war was over some compensation for any breach of regularity should be made to the violated kingdom. It is needless to say that in both cases an indignant refusal was returned. But we can hardly have a better or more significant example of that high-handed insolence which we are learning to associate with the Teutonic character … Germany would seem to have learned to considerable purpose the teachings of NIETZSCHE, together with his contempt for the ‘slave-morality’ of Christianity …
To us in this country the neutrality of Belgium is a vital matter, quite apart from the sacredness of the treaty by which it was first guaranteed. The conquering nation which occupies Belgium and the Low Countries threatens our shores from extremely close quarters, and holds, as has been picturesquely said, a pistol at the heart of England. She will not easily submit to such an insult. Already she is calling up all the reserves and embodying the Territorial regiments. The entire navy was completely mobilized early yesterday morning. England sees the necessity forced on her of declaring war. Strong in the consciousness of the enthusiastic support of the whole Empire, persuaded also of the justice of her cause, she will know how to take all appropriate measures for her own protection and the dignity of her name.
Cate rested the paper on his lap. He wished the press would not use such provocative words as ‘cynical’, ‘insolent’, ‘sacredness’, and the rest. Hatred and scorn of Germany might be popular, but they should not be necessary, and could be very unwise. Such emotionalism was deliberately used by press and politicians to save the trouble of explaining to the people the inner necessities of events. It was an insult to the common people, to the ordinary Englishman, who in his heart knew well that every nation had to protect its own vital interests, or it would soon cease to exist. Today’s enemy might of necessity become tomorrow’s friend … it had happened often enough even in his own lifetime: France had been the enemy, and Germany generally regarded as a friend and counterweight to French pretensions. Then the Germans started their colonial programme, which meant building a fleet … and the Kaiser had rattled the sabre, and Edward VII had won over the French – whose press and people had been bitterly, furiously, anti-British at the time of the Boer War, to the extent of the grossest personal insults against the Queen’s person … So now France was one of England’s allies; and another was the last country Britain had fought against in Europe – Russia; so it was vain and silly to hate the Germans; and foolish in the extreme to despise them. But were they behind their leaders, heart and mind? Were the Russians willing to fight for the sort of lives they led? How firm was the French endurance against hardship and sacrifice? How well would Britain marshal not only her manpower, but her collective brainpower?
It would take time, he thought, but in the long run, we’ll show them.
9 Hedlington: Thursday, August 13, 1914
Susan Rowland sat at her husband’s side on the front seat of the Rowland Sapphire. Stafford, the young chauffeur, sat in the back. Richard nearly always drove the car himself, though Stafford, who had started as a stable boy, would dearly have liked to have driven it, sitting high and alone in a peaked cap, a long dust coat over his green uniform, bowling through the hop fields towards Hedlington on another of that summer’s endless procession of burning days. Susan scanned the fields as they passed to see if she could tell, just from looking, that her husband’s country – and, for sixteen years now, her own – was at war. Not yet, she thought. It would come. There would be changes, great changes, but for the moment the English seemed to be pretending that war with the mightiest military power in the world was somehow not a fact but a thing only imagined. The hops hung heavy on the poles, the cows grazed unhurriedly in the fields, the wheat stood ready for the scythe, indeed here and there the harvest had started, and men were advancing against the golden ranks in slow rhythm, blades sweeping, flashing.
‘Has Quentin’s regiment left for France yet, do you think?’ she asked her husband.
Richard said, ‘I believe not, but they will be going soon, I’m sure. Tom sailed on HMS Monmouth just before war was declared.’
‘What sort of a boat is that?’
‘I asked old Commander Quigley – he said it is an armoured cruiser.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll hear from him, or about him, for ages. I can’t think how battleships get any mail, or send it off, if they’re always at sea … Do you think Margaret will have seen Quentin?’
Richard’s voice was grim, ‘I very much doubt it. Margaret’s interest in Ireland is in direct opposition to Quentin’s. He is – or was – there to keep the peace; she’s there to start a revolution, if I know her.’
‘Poor Christopher!’
She was silent, thinking of Christopher Cate, the withdrawn English gentleman musician, scholar, lover of all wild life, farmer, squire, friend and more to his tenants … Margaret needed a very different man if she was to be managed: but was she?
Richard took his foot off the accelerator and the Rowland slowed. They had driven via Walstone, and were now close to the southern-most houses of Hedlington passing the fairgrounds and the Scarrowford county cricket ground. The fields gave way to rows of small brick houses and those to shops, taller stuccoed buildings, Tudor half-timbering, Georgian houses and banks, the pillared Town Hall, built in 1810, the South Eastern Railway station.
‘What’s happening?’ Susan asked, wondering, for crowds lined both sides of the street, and seemed to be waiting expectantly. Horsedrawn drays, a few hansoms, and small delivery vans clip-clopped up and down between them, as though too intent on their own business to be aware of the crowd. Then she heard music, a fast drum beat and bugles shrilling over all.
A policeman at the side of the road, a tall burly man with a walrus moustache, raised one hand majestically, and Richard stopped the car. The policeman said. ‘Stop here, at the side, if you don’t mind, sir. They’re coming now.’
Richard took off his driving glasses and blinked at the policeman. ‘Who’s coming, constable?’
‘Why, the reservists, sir. The Regiment’s reservists. Marching to the station with the Depot band.’
‘Where are they going to? France?’
The policeman who wore the Queen’s and King’s South African war ribbons, and two others that Richard did not recognize, on his left breast, looked at them pityingly. ‘They’re going to join the 1st Battalion in Ireland, sir, and then the battalion will sail for France.’
‘That’s Quentin’s battalion,’ Richard said. ‘Thank you, constable.’
Susan leaned forward, not knowing quite what to expect. She had been married to Richard Rowland for sixteen years now. For the first few of those years they had lived here in Hedlington, the rest in Beighton, a dozen miles away. All that time, although Richard�
�s younger brother Quentin had been an officer of the Weald Light Infantry, she did not remember ever having seen him in uniform; to tell the truth, she had not seen much of him or Fiona at all, for Richard and Quentin were not close. But for all that time, too, Minden Barracks, the depot of the regiment, had squatted on the lower slopes of Busby Down, at the western edge of the town, an ugly pile of blackened yellow brick … and she had never been inside it, or known anyone but Quentin who had. She had seen a few soldiers in the streets at night, sometimes drunk outside pubs in their scarlet coats, sometimes picking up a harlot behind the Town Hall; but as far as it had affected her life, the army might not have existed. The army wasn’t really a part of English life – as it wasn’t in America; here the navy was, yes, but not the army. And now the army was going to absorb almost everything else in the country. It was a strange and frightening thought. She realized that she had no idea of what was to come – neither to the country, nor, now, this instant, up the street. Would it be a phalanx of men in red tailcoats, shakos, and white cross belts, like the pictures in the Californian school books of the hated enemy of the Revolution? Men with tall bearskins and measured tread, as she had seen once when Richard had taken her to see the changing of the Guard outside Buckingham Palace a few weeks before the old queen’s death? Or …
They came round the corner, a small band first, perhaps thirty men in all, of whom eight or nine were buglers, then ranks of men in khaki uniforms, many ill-fitting, peaked caps awry, marching not well in step, some already limping. She said, ‘Are these Quentin’s men?’
The constable was still close by, and heard her. ‘These are reservists, madam. Some of ’em ain’t put on a pair of ammunition boots for five years. Some of ’em only arrived in yesterday. And a few of ’em’s been at the beer, too. But they’ll fight, madam, they’ll teach old Kaiser Bill to laugh on the other side of his ugly mug.’